Page 36 of Maid for the Marquess

“I have never had either,” she confessed.

I headed to my chamber, then returned to her and handed her a small glass. “Sip it slowly,” I instructed. “It is sweet, and I think you will like it.”

She sipped it, and I watched as a pleased smile pulled at her lips. “It is delicious.”

I swirled my brandy glass in my hand, warming it, then taking an appreciative mouthful, the decadent liquor flowing down my throat. Madeleine observed me, looking curious. I offered her the glass. “Try it, but only a small taste. It is very strong.”

She accepted the glass and sniffed it, then tilted it back, barely wetting her lips. I discerned a small grimace on her face as she handed me back the glass. “I believe I will keep the sherry,” she informed me with a small cough.

I chuckled at her politeness. “Excellent choice.”

As we sat in silence, I shifted, trying to get comfortable. The chair was smaller than those in my chambers and more delicate in form. The fire in Madeleine’s room was banked low, the servants no doubt thinking she would be joining me in my chambers, where the logs burned bright and warm. Madeleine studied me with concern.

“Are you unsettled, my lord?”

I nodded and stood. “The furniture here is made for someone much smaller than I. I would like to sit in my chamber if you would be agreeable.”

I saw the tremor that went through her body, the flare of fear that flickered in her eyes before she lowered them. “Of course. Whatever you desire.”

In an instant, I sank to my knees in front of her, setting aside our glasses and taking her hands in mine. “Look at me, Madeleine.”

She hesitated, another tremor shaking her body, then looked up, meeting my gaze.

“Do not fear me, my wife. I know you are innocent and worried of what comes next in our marriage. But this evening is not what you are frightened it will be.”

“My lord?” she whispered.

I drew a finger down her cheek, the softness of her skin pleasing. “I wish for you to be comfortable with me. For us to know each other more before we begin our, ah, relations.”

“I do not understand. It is my duty⁠—”

I stopped her with a shake of my head. “I do not wish for you to lay with me as a duty. I want for you to desire it as well. I want you to come to me of your own free will, not because you feel it is a duty you must perform.”

Her eyes glimmered in the low firelight. “Will I not have failed you, then?”

“No,” I responded with a firm shake of my head. “It is what I wish for. I only planned on celebrating our union by spending time with you this evening. Conversing. Reading to you a little. It is my greatest joy to watch you smile, to hear your laughter. To perhaps hold your hand or stroke your cheek. For now, that is enough.”

“And when it is not?” she asked, her question bold despite the worry lingering in her gaze.

“I pray you will want more as much as I do. But I will not force you, my wife. You are safe.”

Her shoulders relaxed, the anxiety leaching from her eyes.

“Will you come with me and sit in my chamber? Allow me to read to you and let us enjoy the warmth of our shared company?”

“Yes.”

I stood and offered my hand, and she allowed me to tug her from her chair. She followed me to my chamber, and I indicated the chair by the fire as I prepared fresh glasses. “Sit.”

“But where will you sit?”

“I can sit on the footstool.”

“No, you must sit in your chair. It is only proper. I am much smaller, and the footstool will be fine for me,” she stated and sat down, tucking her night rail around her.

I sat with a frown, then stood, crossed the room, pulled the coverlet from the bed, and sat down again. I patted my lap. “Sit with me, my wife.”

Her eyes widened.